MEMORIES OF A WARM CAT

I still remember the day we got him. We were visiting a farm in the country and heard a yowling kitten stuck in a tree. Mama rescued him and got scratched for her trouble. We fell in love with him, in good part because of his arrogance and determination.

Right off, Yod Rak let us know who was boss. He wanted nothing to do with the cat box, preferring to tend to his kittenly needs outdoors. He was a great hunter and from the start he brought home his trophies -- toads, gophers, mice and birds. He could never understand why we weren't as pleased with him as he was with himself when he carried the animals -- sometimes dead, sometimes not -- into the living room.

To outsiders, Yod Rak probably looked like a cool cat. He was proper and dignified, and walked with his dark tail switching high in the air. He didn't put up with any nonsense and disappeared at the first sign of a party. Within the family, though, he was tolerant, loving and playful. My little sisters dressed him up and pushed him in the baby carriage. He looked embarrassed, but he put up with a great deal. As long as he was getting attention, Yod Rak was tolerant. When attention wasn't forthcoming, he took action. He especially liked to sit in the middle of a newspaper I was trying to read, or lie on the clothes Mama was folding.

In all the ways that were important Yod Rak was a member of the family. He went on our vacations, yelping when he was reduced to using the cat box. He posed in dozens of family portraits and when we put in a new patio, right next to all of our handprints in the cement was Yod Rak's paw print.

But in addition to being a member of the family, Yod Rak was a friend. He loved to curl up in bed. I can still feel the warm roughness of his tongue as he washed my face. I worked through many adolescent frustrations with him on my lap, his purr helping to soothe away the troubles.

With the five of us kids and a business, too, Mama was busy. Although she was always tired in the morning, Yod Rak demanded that she get up early to feed him. As a result we usually had hot breakfasts and a few family moments before school. Other times Yod Rak was simply a good excuse to relax.

"I don't want to disturb the cat," Mama would say. "Why don't you come here so we can have a talk." Yod Rak as lap warmer may be the reason my mother and I had so many heart-to-heart talks and now have such a good relationship.

Then one sunny day a woman came to the door, her eyes filled with apologies.

"I'm so sorry. Your cat. . .He ran. . .I couldn't. . ."

Yod Rak lay on the warm black pavement bleeding from the mouth. There were internal injuries and the vet wired his broken jaw back together. We coddled him for a while, and soon Yod Rak was his old self. But his car troubles were not over.

Like most cats, he liked to climb under the car hood so he could sleep next to the warmth of the engine. One evening when Mama started the car there was a terrible scream. We were horrified to see pieces of fur floating in the air like dandelion puffs.

We lifted the hood, expecting the worst. But Yod Rak had vanished. There was no broken kitty that we could rush to help, not even a trace of blood. We looked in all his hiding places, but Yod Rak was gone. The yard and driveway, however, were covered with pieces of his coat. I collected several bits of the fur, rubbed them against my cheek and wondered if it was the last of him I would ever see. I hid the fur in my dresser and went out to look for him some more.

The next morning Yod Rak was home: angry, hungry and shorn. Apparently the fan belt had brushed against him and shaved a 3-by-4-inch patch of fur from his back. His skin was pale and absolutely bare. You could see the blood vessels.

Yod Rak's accidents seemed proof of all the tales about cats and their nine lives. It never occurred to me that eventually we really would lose him.

It was during my sophomore year that Yod Rak got sick. One day he made a nest in the corner of my closet and wouldn't leave. He refused to eat or even to move. Mama cooked his favorite -- leg of lamb -- to tempt him, but he hardly even sniffed it. That's when we knew he was really sick. Our vet didn't know what it was, so we called the veterinary hospital at my university.

"Take hold of his flesh: does the fur spring back? Are his gums pink or white?"

We ran to the closet. His fur didn't spring back at all. His gums were ghostly white.

"Bring him in right away."

Leukemia is fairly common in cats but Yod Rak's was rare. The doctors spoke in euphe-

misms, but the choice they gave us was really no choice at all. Either they could put him to sleep or they could try to help him and learn something in the process. The result would be the same.

Every day I rode my bicycle three miles from the dorm to the veterinary buildings.

It had cages instead of beds, but there was no doubt that Yod Rak was in a hospital. Everything was shiny clear, and people in the halls wore white coats and stethoscopes. Yod Rak was in intensive care. After the first few days the staff let me go in alone. Not many of their patients had daily visitors.

Yod Rak lay in a back corner of his cage, a bowl of untouched food in front of him. He recognized me and rubbed his head against my hand. There were shaved patches on his legs and back for drawing blood samples. The bare spots reminded me of the time he got caught under the car. That, however, was a badge of his escape from death. This time the shaved patches were constant reminders of how close he was to dying.

No one I loved had ever died. I was sure the hurt must be worse for a person, but I hurt so much for Yod Rak that tears weren't enough. I felt especially bad because I couldn't make him understand, tell him how much we would miss him.

Of course there was always the option of putting him to sleep, an option I didn't like to think about. At least this way his life -- and his death -- might help other cats.

It has been nine years since we buried Yod Rak under the persimmon tree. When I go home to visit, half the time I forget and call my parents' new middle-aged cat, "Yod Rak."

Not long ago I came across the little box where I used to keep special things. There, right next to two of my baby teeth, was a large puff of sand- colored fur. I never threw it away, afraid, even then, that it might be the last piece of Yod Rak I would touch.

The fur is still soft. It is light as down and silky. As I brush it against my face, the memories come back and Yod Rak is still alive. And if I'm very quiet, I can still hear his warm familiar purr.